Resisting Nick (Wicked in Wellington) (29 page)

But it was Rafiq who busied himself with her hair, gently removing the elastic tie that held the long glistening strands together, and combing them through with his fingers to arrange it over her shoulders in a pale tousled waterfall. Laurel shivered as he touched her. Even here in the burning desert he sent cold tremors right down her spine.

He unwound the heavy chain from her wrists and then unlocked the handcuffs. She chafed at her skin to bring some feeling back after the constriction of the chains. But her relief was short-lived. He crouched in front of her, unwound a length of bright orange polyester rope, and tied it around each of her wrists, leaving perhaps two feet of it between her hands.

“Hold very still,” he instructed, producing a cigarette lighter from one of his trouser pockets, and proceeding to weld the knots together by melting the rope into hard unyielding lumps. Her relief at being freed ebbed away. The flame licked against her flesh, although he was careful not to burn her. He tied a much longer length to the first one and handed it to Fayez or Nazim—she still couldn’t tell them apart.

“Forgive me this,” Rafiq said, brushing his fingers along the dusty floor and spreading grimy smears onto Laurel’s face and the front of her high-necked long-sleeved white shirt. His fingers felt hot through the thin cotton fabric, and she shrank away from his touch on her breasts.

“We need to make it look as though several days have gone by. As though you are now dirty and desperate. Fayez?”

Fayez grasped the rope in one brown hand as though she was a poor sad mongrel on a lead and stood impassively beside her.

Rafiq began recording again and then muttered something. Suddenly Laurel’s head was dragged backwards and a huge curved knife pressed against her throat. She screamed in total terror.

“No, please! Please don’t! I’m not who you think I am!” At last she burst into the tears that had never been far away.

“America...” Fayez sneered as he allowed her to slump forward in a sobbing heap.

“Good, it’s all done,” Rafiq confirmed in a businesslike tone, checking his work and ejecting the final little cassette. He let her cry for several more minutes and then asked, “Are you thirsty? We have Coca Cola or orange juice, both quite cold.”

She raised her ruined face and stared at him in disbelief. “You think you can put me through that and then act all hospitable?”
 

He shrugged. “It’s hot. You need to drink.”

“You’re a maniac. You’re
all
maniacs. What the hell was that filming charade all about?”

“Dear young lady—whoever you are—you are the currency we will bargain with. The first recording will let the authorities know we have you, safe and alive. The second, which they will receive in a few days’ time, will show them you are still alive but in grave danger. The third—that your plight is now desperate.” He shrugged again. “It’s the way we achieve what we need.”

“Is this religious or political?”

“One is tied so closely to the other.”

“In this part of the world, yes,” she sneered. “I thought it would be exotic and beautiful and cultural when Mrs Daniels said they’d been posted to Al Sounam.”

“We are undoubtedly exotic and beautiful and cultural, as you say.”

“Not from where I’m looking.” She stared around the bunker in panic. One wall appeared to be made of huge boulders. She assumed it was disguised as a rocky outcrop on the outside.

 
Slivers of light shone through in places, so at least she wouldn’t run out of fresh air. “How long are you keeping me here?”

“For as long as it takes for certain people to see sense.”

“But what about...plumbing,” she asked in a very small voice, feeling the blush spread up her neck and over her face.

“We have that most admirable invention, the Porta-Pottie.” He pointed to the far corner and she suddenly realized what the other boxy object was.

“And decadent American Coca Cola,” she muttered.

“As you say.”
 

She was almost certain there was a tiny quirk at one end of his stern mouth.

Rafiq tied the longer piece of tough orange rope around one of the heavy table legs so she was tethered, dissolved the knot together, and motioned the other men to leave. “We will give you some privacy for a few minutes. We have important things to arrange outside.”

She stayed sitting, acutely embarrassed, until his long legs disappeared from view, then she crept across to the corner.

Minutes later, she knew she was never going to be able to unpick the melted-together knots. She’d worried at them unceasingly since the men had retreated outside, and all she’d achieved were very sore fingertips and one broken nail. Finally she gave in, fixed her hair back into its pony-tail again, and reclaimed the red cap.

She heaved a deep sigh. Almost anything would be better than this. She’d settle for the noisy hostel, or her dump of a flat, or even the Gorridge’s awful foster-home in preference to her current situation. If life had seemed bad before, it was infinitely worse now.

Snatches of conversation drifted down the steps. She had no idea what was being discussed because her grasp of the local language was restricted to the most basic words yet.

The wind still sounded high. It whistled over the dunes and sent a sifting of sand down the stairs. She heard the van engine fire up, and then the vehicle ground away, leaving eerie silence. She trembled with fear and disbelief. Surely they hadn’t abandoned her here, albeit with toilet facilities, Coca Cola, orange juice, and possibly some sort of food if there was drink? There was no way she could bear to be confined in the dismal bunker all alone for heaven knows how many days. She eyed the foam mattress warily. It seemed a very real possibility.
 

And then terror engulfed her again as she detected footsteps on the stairs, followed by one masculine silhouette against the rectangle of daylight. Which of them had returned?

It was the pig.

***

If you enjoyed my
Wicked in Wellington
series, you’ll enjoy my friend Diana Fraser’s
The PA’s Revenge
which is also set in Wellington.

THE PA’S REVENGE

By Diana Fraser

Cassandra Lee doesn’t do emotion. Why would you want to
feel
anything when your son and father have died in horrific circumstances? Why would you want to
do
anything other than exact revenge on the man you hold responsible for the tragedy? Revenge is her only focus so she studies his business and revamps her image with the aim of becoming his PA and sabotaging his fortune.

And Dallas Mackenzie’s wealth is important to him. He’s restored his family’s fortunes after his father nearly lost everything through drink, violence and deceit. He believes he’s inherited his father’s violent temper and alcoholism and is determined not to succumb to them. He values honesty above all else and focuses on working hard and avoiding emotional attachment at any cost, even an empty life.

But empty lives can be filled—at least for a short while—and Dallas sets out to seduce Cassandra. Unfortunately seduction—and her body’s responses to this arrogant, powerful and sexy man—wasn’t something Cassandra could prepare for. She just hopes that his interest—and her resistance—will hold out long enough to ruin him...

—
Excerpt
—

“Come in!” The low growl penetrated the thick oak door effortlessly.

It was an order. It was without finesse. It was exactly what Cassandra had expected.

Even so, her hand trembled slightly as she tugged at her straightened hair, pulling a stubborn curl firmly behind her ear. She had to have everything under control if she was going to succeed.

She opened the heavy door, allowing it to swing wide before she made her entrance. It had to be a good one; she would have only one chance.

With a quick glance she scanned the dark office registering the minimal decor, clear desk, single light pooled over a closed laptop, before her eyes rested on the man whose image haunted her every waking moment—Dallas Mackenzie.

He stood in shadow with his back to her, hands thrust in pockets, staring out over the lights of Wellington.

“What do you want?”

He hadn’t even bothered to turn to face her.

Fear flickered in her gut.
 

“I’ve come to be interviewed for the PA position.”

“I’m not interviewing today. Come back tomorrow with the others.”

She swallowed. “I can’t. It has to be today. The agency rang and arranged the appointment with your receptionist for 5.30.” Her first lie. It had been easier than she’d thought.

“You’re late then.”

He still hadn’t turned around.

“I’m not late. I’ve been waiting over an hour.”

Cassandra walked slowly towards him and stopped in the middle of the room, suddenly confronted with her own image clearly visible in the window against the darkening sky. It was an image she didn’t recognize—sleekly groomed and in control.

He grunted but still didn’t move, simply continued to stare across the darkening harbor towards the Rimutaka ranges, glowing orange in the setting sun.

She had to admit the view was incredible. No wonder the man felt invincible. He had the city at his feet. Just a pity that he chose to abuse his power. But that was where she came in, wasn’t it?

“Go home.”

“You’re too busy to see me? Fine.” She turned and walked away, her stilettos stabbing the marble floor. “But you need to know you’re passing up the best opportunity you’ll get of employing a good PA. I know, I’ve looked through the CVs of the other candidates and they won’t last.”

She stopped by the door. The thud of her heart seemed to shake her body with its intensity. All the work of these past months in preparation for this moment. Was it all for nothing? She had to see. She turned her head just enough to check his reaction.

He’d shifted slightly, briefly revealing his profile against the city lights, before turning to her. An advertising hoarding cast alternating beams of red and green light across his cheek bone and down to the hard set of his mouth. The effect was demonic and unnerving. Although his eyes remained in darkness, Cassandra’s skin prickled under their intense scrutiny.

He sighed: a deep soul-wrenching sigh. “I’m not too busy.”
 

For a fleeting moment Cassandra felt the shock of the unexpected. She thought she recognized the emptiness behind the sound. One look at his arrogant face and the thought vanished as quickly as it came.

“I asked my receptionist to tell you to leave. She obviously decided not to.”

She turned to face him. “So you’ll interview me now?”

“Doesn’t look as if I have much choice does it, Miss—”

She stepped towards him and offered her hand.

“Lee. Cassandra Lee.” She smiled tentatively, trying to contain her nerves.

He didn’t smile back but took her hand in his. Rather than dispelling her nerves the warmth and strength of his hand briefly engulfing hers, shook her. She felt his power, and from the way his grey eyes narrowed slowly, she also felt his interest.

“The agency rang, you say?”

She nodded.

“Really?”

A warning shiver trickled down her back at the lowered tone. Her lie hadn’t gone undetected
.
But she had no choice but to continue.

“You wanted someone ‘highly organized, experienced and prepared for anything—24/7.’”

“And I take it you’re all that?”

“And more. I also have superb references, a Masters degree and I’m a creative thinker.”

Particularly when it came to her CV.
She dropped a copy of the document—more fiction than fact—on to his desk.

“In case you didn’t receive a copy from the agency.”

He didn’t move.

“What I want to know about an employee, a CV can’t tell me.”

“And that is?”

“I work on gut instinct.”

He walked slowly across the room and flicked on a light before turning towards her once more.

She could see him more clearly now: longish dark hair threaded with grey, a face strong and powerful rather than handsome. He had the face and body of a street fighter, deceptively relaxed but ready for anything. He also had the demeanor of a fighter: rude, arrogant and instinctive. And all this, dressed in an immaculate suit that shouted establishment. He was a contradiction.

But above all that she could see the keen intelligence in his eyes that now were narrowed and focused on her as though he could read her soul. A pity she couldn’t read his. Gut instinct wasn’t something for which she’d been able to prepare.
 

“And what is your gut instinct telling you now?”

He stepped towards her. “That you’re a determined woman who wants this job badly for some reason.”

She stepped back. She was cornered and had no other option than to come out fighting.

“How can you possibly tell that from our brief conversation?”
 

He ignored her question and leaned back against the desk, folding his arms.

“Who are you and why do you want this job so badly you’d lie to get it?”

———

Romances that sizzle with love, life and laughter.

For more information on Kris’s other books, please visit her website

http://www.krispearson.com